A Patch of Clover: Christmas
by altenprano
Summary: A series of drabbles about Mairead's Christmases at Downton.
1. 1916

**A/N: So I realized that I don't have any chapters in "A Patch of Clover" for Christmas (yet), and the only one I can think of that will be set on Christmas is not until 1924, and I'm trying really hard to stay in order, so I've written a series of drabbles for each of Mairead's years at Downton. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Downton Abbey_**

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_1916_

She excused herself from dinner before the festivities could begin, claiming a slight headache and not waiting for permission to be granted as she rose from her place. She gave Tom a tight nod before leaving the servants' hall with false apology written across her features.

_Merry Christmas, Sam, _she thought as she climbed the steps, setting her foot down carefully each time to avoid eliciting a squeal from the wood.

She wondered what her family would be doing tonight. Her mam would be supervising the maids at the Downing house, Will was likely to be enjoying a glass of sherry, the rascal, her Pa and Aunt Bridget were probably tucking in Beth about now, just as Isibéal would be putting her boy Daniel to sleep and telling the boy stories about Father Christmas.

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading! I will post more drabbles for this soon, so have a merry christmas (or happy holidays) while you're at it!**


	2. 1917

_1917 _

For the second year in a row, she excused herself from the servants' hall before the first note of a Christmas carol could fly into the air, though after having lost one of their own in the fall, no one seemed overly eager to be the one to start. Apparently it had always been William who started the caroling, on the piano, she'd been told, but with the young man dead, no one seemed to want to touch the instrument.

As she was about to climb the stairs, she heard the first hesitant notes of "Silent Night" being played, and she was tempted to lend her voice, and she would've, had she not been on her way in for the night. Oh, how she wanted to, but the promise of a silent night of her own was much more alluring than a rowdy night with the others.

_Next year, _she promised herself.


	3. 1918

**A/N: So here's Mairead's third Christmas at Downton...the Christmas season is long over, but I'm going to continue posting these as they are written. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Downton Abbey, _only Mairead**

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_1918_

True to her word, she stayed for the festivities that followed dinner, though she was quickly worn out after several carols, and she knew work would pick up again tomorrow. Tom escorted her out of the servants' hall, just as tired as she, but he wished her a merry Christmas and gave her a kiss on the top of her head, just as he had when they were children (or more correctly, when she was a child, as Tom was hardly able to be called a child by the time she was old enough to declare him her favorite cousin, not with fifteen years between them), and both went their separate ways for the night.

She could be heard humming carols and hymns as she changed for bed, draping the shawl that had arrived from Isibéal with the morning post, no doubt as a Christmas gift, around her shoulders. She caught herself smiling at the color, which was her favorite blue-grey, with enough blue to make her hair seem more red, but enough grey that the blue wasn't too gaudy for her tastes. It was the perfect gift, practical and beautiful at the same time, and it'd come just in time, despite Isibéal's fears (which she'd expressed in the letter that accompanied the gift) that it wouldn't make it for whatever reason.

_A merry Christmas indeed, _she thought, settling under the covers and turning on her side, reminding herself as she had throughout the evening that even though tomorrow was Christmas, that didn't mean she wouldn't be working, and that meant getting up early, as usual, holiday or not.

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**A/N: That's it for now! Thank you for reading and I hope my fellow US-residents enjoy the season premiere tonight. **


	4. 1919

**A/N: I know it's been forever since I updated this, but I hope to finish all the way to 1924 (though that might be included in _A Patch of Clover_.**

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_1919 _

Mairead sat in the same row of pews as the other servants, her attention fixated on the vicar as he delivered his sermon about the meaning of Christmas and the same things she'd heard every other year of her life this time of year. What was different from this year was that this wasn't a Catholic service, and more different still (at least from what she'd become accustomed to in the past three years), Tom wasn't the one sitting beside her.

Instead, she was sandwiched between Anna and another one of the housemaids, a mousy-haired wisp of a girl who she knew wouldn't stay long- she'd already found the maid crying for home several times. Anna was particularly subdued, and Mairead knew it was because Mr. Bates was in prison, and she risked squeezing the older woman's gloved hand gently in an attempt to comfort her.

"Have faith," Mairead said, ducking her head so the vicar nor Mrs. Hughes wouldn't notice her rudeness.

Anna gave the girl a polite smile and returned the squeeze.

"Christmas is a time for miracles, my brother always told me." _And Tom. Tom told you that too. _"All you need is faith."

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**A/N: So a little longer than the other ones, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Please review if you have a moment, let me know what you think, and thank you for reading~**


	5. 1920

_1920 _

It was strange, how much could change in a year, and even with how much could change, how much _did_ change.

Mairead smiled as she straightened up the nursery, where her cousin lay sleeping like the Christ Child had on this very night, many thousands of years ago, on a night just as peaceful as this one.

A year ago, Mairead wouldn't even think that one night—nearly every night really—she would pass through her cousin's nursery and be able to see her—barely two months old now—sound asleep in her crib.

Outside, the snow fell gently, more like dust disturbed than the torrents that sometimes plagued winters in the Wicklow Mountains. Sometimes the wind would whine as it met the ancient walls of the Abbey, but never loud enough to wake Mairead's sleeping cousin.

A year ago, Mairead never thought that she would be taking the role of her cousin's mother, but who else was there to fill that role?

Tom was still grieving for his darling Sybil, though the Crawleys seemed to have moved on. It was the difference between the Irish and the English, perhaps, that the Irish let their grief run its course, while the English mourned for a prescribed amount of time and then moved on, and it would be the difference between Tom and the Crawleys.

Lady Mary, as Sybbie's godmother, should've been the next to fill the gap left by Sybil, but Mairead doubted the ability of Sybbie's eldest aunt (on the Crawley side, at least) to be a proper mother. Women of Lady Mary's position and wealth—Irish, English, American, Scottish, it didn't matter—gave their children to nursemaids and saw them for an hour every day until they were old enough to behave on their own.

That left Mairead.

When Mairead explained her situation in a delicately-worded letter to her sister-in-law Isibéal, Isibéal had responded by calling Mairead "The Virgin Mother."

At this memory, Mairead smiled again and surveyed the nursery.

The curtains were drawn and the fire was banked, but not put out—never put out. Her cousin, little Sybil Branson, lay asleep beneath carefully-arranged quilts, a smile on her little lips.

All was well.

"_Nollaig Shona Duit_," Mairead whispered as she bent to press a gentle kiss to her sleeping cousin's head. "Happy Christmas."


End file.
